


The Brightest of the Planets is Mars

by sangueuk



Series: Planets in Alignment [4]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M, Mirror Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-28
Updated: 2012-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-31 21:24:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sangueuk/pseuds/sangueuk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Summary</b>: Much to his annoyance, the sight of Jim a little beat up turns McCoy on. He doesn’t like these feelings and hides out in his office. Jim goes to find him.<br/><b>Notes/Warnings</b>: descriptions of minor injury and the usual MU bad manners, as well as implied violence off screen (though nothing graphic). MU!lite - kink - tending to minor wounds</p><p><b>intriguing snippet:</b> <i> McCoy’s cock is wide awake already. Damn it, he’s a doctor, he’s immune to this shit; it’s as ridiculous as a florist being overwhelmed, turned on, by the smell of flowers. Jesus, what the hell is wrong with him?  </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Brightest of the Planets is Mars

**Author's Note:**

> Written for km_anthology 2012: This is the 4th fic in my ‘Planets in Alignment’ series and is set six months into the first mission. Reading the previous stories will greatly enhance your enjoyment of this part but is not necessary, though it helps to know that in my version of the Empire, kissing is strictly taboo. 
> 
> The title comes from a line in Rufus Wainwright’s, ‘Go or Go Ahead’
> 
> Thanks to the ever wonderful abigail89 for beta reading.

[](http://photobucket.com)

The gorgeous banner is courtesy of the fabulous avictoriangirl

 

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**The Brightest of the Planets is Mars**

The first time McCoy has an ‘inappropriate’ reaction to Kirk being hurt is after the destruction of Vulcan.

He’s not sure if it even registered at the time. 

How could it? His own internal weather was a meaningless blip of personal feeling lost in this mass agony, this vortex of pain and crying souls, all extinguished in one act, one moment. Genocide. 

And he was too damned busy tending injured Vulcans, trying to establish order among his staff. Trying not to hyperventilate. Trying to be a professional.

They were in the sickbay, _his_ sickbay now; his throat raw with the stench of burned rubber and silicone, the ceiling hanging down around them. Even the ship seemed to moan in a kind of disbelief that she’d be damaged like this on her coming out parade.

McCoy barely spared Jim a glance. Once he’d registered Jim was alive, and swallowed down his grief at the sheer fucking waste, McCoy got on with his damned job.

He’d figured out after Puri died that this was what it was going to be like from now on. They’d be flying by the seat of their pants, he, Jim, and the rest of the cadets who’d sprinted from Cochrane Hall, weapons in hand.

Even now, six months into their first mission to conquer, to spread terror, to bring back spoils and slaves for the Empire, McCoy hasn’t adjusted. He’s fucking scared that he’ll screw this up, that he won’t be able to handle this amount of responsibility let alone control his volatile staff. Most of all, he’s scared he’ll be found out – someone will figure out that he’s not heartless enough for this job - CMO of the _ISS Enterprise_ – thank you, Nero.

And it could all end just as easily - blink and he won’t be here anymore, that’s how god damned random the universe is. That’s how precarious his position is. Or would be – if his fate wasn’t all tied up with Jim fucking Kirk.

That day, and during the days the ship limped back to Earth after the defeat of Nero, it really sank in; what he’s scared of most of all is this ‘thing’ with Jim. That Jim might be taken away from him. That McCoy will be left free-falling in space, that Joanna will be sucked into the vacuum, too. And if there’s one thing McCoy is certain of in this crazy universe it’s this: he knows that Jim will never leave him willingly, for all his leader-of-the pack, ruthless shit.

Only there’s more…damn, when did this become something more than a mutually beneficial arrangement?

McCoy’s locked himself in his office. He knows his presence is expected in the transporter room. He’s supposed to be there to hail the conquering hero, med-kit in hand, mopping up Jim’s blood, hauling Jim’s entrails back with his bare fucking hands if needs be, but he’s through with this shit. When he heard that despite the, “bar brawl to end all bar brawls, we kicked their sorry asses, Bones!” McCoy ignores the reflex slow-burn building in his belly, disconnects the channel and heads for his haven.

Now he can hear the commotion in sickbay via the comm unit--the upending of bio-beds, setting off alarms all around, as well as what must be the thud of bodies being man-handled aside.

And there’s Jim’s voice, demanding, threatening and utterly composed.

Head bowed, McCoy tries to ignore the noise while he searches through his memories of that time, post Nerada, trying to figure out what the hell this means, how it all started – _why_ he’s getting these unwelcome, annoying as all get out sensations.

But how can he make sense of what were barely formed thoughts, even if at the time they were pushing stubbornly against the barbed wire that’s his temper? All he knows is he couldn’t fucking look at Jim. Sure, McCoy was _aware_ of Jim, his solid presence, his composure while he sat motionless on a biobed being tended to by Chapel. McCoy spared one glance and took in how Jim held up a bandaged hand, then he turned away because yes, _that_ was the first time McCoy felt it. A quickening in his loins which made McCoy’s lips curl with self-loathing because, why the hell would a battered, bruised Jim turn him on? He was happy for Jim to be okay, to be _alive_. He thought he’d lost him on the surface of Vulcan.

McCoy has a psych degree but ‘physician heal thyself’ never slapped him in the face as hard as it did that day and he hasn’t got a clue where this has come from, nor how to get rid of it. So he’s hiding.

At the academy, McCoy had been Jim’s physician of choice – cut-throat medics a minefield Jim had been unwilling to walk. He had gone to McCoy for the slightest ailment. As much as McCoy had had to bite down on his desire for this man while running the regen time and time again over buttermilk skin, it had _never_ been the fact that Jim had been wounded or hurt which had turned him on. It had been just that Jim was _there_. Jim’s charisma had seeped into McCoy’s bones more painfully than the images he’d jerked off to every night, the ones he’d used to train himself to want this man. Now, wanting Jim is so much a part of McCoy, it would be like cutting off his air supply if Jim died. McCoy got close to survive, to gain protection for Joanna – now that same closeness is in danger of killing him.

He’s literally held Jim’s heart in his hands twice in the six months since Jim’s won the _ISS_ \- and there’s _nothing_ stimulating about that. And he can deal – sure he can. That’s why he’s here – he’s the best, and he’s the only one Kirk can trust.

In addition, McCoy’s grumbled at Jim countless times for allowing Sulu to take one slice out of him after another when they spar in the gym. _That_ doesn’t do it for him either. Nope, it’s more specific than that. It’s taken McCoy a while to unravel it - when he can bear to even think about it - but his inappropriate response seems to rear its ugly head when Jim comes back from a mission hurt but not dying – yes, it’s _that_ specific.

And what the hell is that about?

McCoy’s grandmother had always accused him of being sentimental. She hadn’t counted on this side of him. She’d have been proud and the thought makes him want to walk away from medicine; his compassion’s all he’s got.

So, last couple of times, McCoy has taken to avoiding Jim post-mission. He didn’t think Jim had noticed.

“Chapel, back the fuck away or I’ll make you _eat_ the fucking hypo.”

Ah, looks like Jim’s noticed after all.

There’s enough of a pause in the ranting for Jim to stride towards the door to McCoy’s office.

“Open the goddamned fucking door, McCoy.” Jim’s tone chirpier than the words suggest but the threat’s real enough. He recalls Jim’s face that time – hell only knows what he was thinking, but McCoy could see it then, how Jim was born to this. There was not a flicker of self doubt in his authority and none in his voice now.

There’s silence in the sickbay as McCoy imagines everyone holding their collective breath. McCoy’s blood runs cold.

He kills visual, sits on the corner of the desk and stares at the far wall.

“Bones?”

McCoy swallows, folds his arms and closes his eyes.

“Jim,” he finally says, his voice thick with his effort to quell his temper. “I’m busy…”

Yep, Jim sure loves it when McCoy speaks to him like he’s a kid. “McCoy, open the door – and that’s an order.”

Fine.

They stare at each other through the open doorway, and Chapel looks away quickly when she briefly catches McCoy’s eye; she looks terrified as she picks up the pieces of Jim’s little tantrum.

Jim leans in, impenetrable blue eyes sweeping McCoy in that way he has, possessive, amused, all at once. He whispers, warm breath tickling McCoy’s ear. “Don’t make me teach you a lesson in front of your staff, Bonesy.”

Fuck, the scent of him, the sharp aroma of battle, of the fucking swaggering warrior returned. There are sprays of arterial blood across what’s left of his tunic, the sash gone – no doubt used as a garrote on some poor alien fuck who didn’t know who he’d been messing with. There’s the faint tang of antiseptic where Chapel must have tried to clean up the laceration on Jim’s left cheek or maybe she dared to touch the pronounced, lop-sided pout of his lip where a fist or foot made contact.

McCoy’s cock is wide awake already. Damn it, he’s a doctor, he’s immune to this shit; it’s as ridiculous as a florist being overwhelmed, turned on, by the smell of flowers. Jesus, what the hell is wrong with him?

“Is that an order too? Captain.” McCoy folds his arms, stares him down, keeping his eyes away from where there’s a beautiful bruise flaring on Jim’s left cheek. He focuses instead on those hypnotic eyes; he can’t look at the determined set of Jim’s mouth. He feels another flare of arousal in the base of his spine and lets out a tired breath.

Jim’s eyes flicker from McCoy’s mouth to his lips and back up to his eyes. Lips pouting slightly as he thinks, tries to process what the hell is going on in McCoy’s mind. Then he shrugs.

“I’m in a good mood, so I’ll make this easy on you.” He pushes past McCoy and perches on the desk, legs splayed, his posture easy, relaxed, commanding. He frowns at McCoy still standing near the door. “Well?”

Well, fuck.

He moves to hit the door panel and when Jim clears his throat, he rolls his eyes.

“Chapel, I’m not to be disturbed,” he barks across sickbay, through the handful of dumb red shirts getting their own contusions and cracked ribs fixed.

He wishes he could slam the door to his office, but has to settle for a barked, “Lock the fucking door, computer.”

“Order denied,” Jim says smoothly. He doesn’t need a fucking override code, not on this ship – his voice alone has absolute authority.

“I don’t appreciate you leaving your dirty work to the nurses, Bones,” Jim remarks idly, like McCoy’s taken the last piece of pie in the canteen, “and I’m going to scar if you don’t clean me up soon. We don’t want my pretty boy looks fucked up now, do we?”

“Shame you didn’t think of that when you put your face in the way of a boot. _Captain._ ”

Jim narrows his eyes almost imperceptibly. McCoy would bet his right testicle Jim’s weighing up the relative merits of busting his lip or getting a blow-job first. Hell, he might even do both.

He catches sight of Chapel scuttling past. Jim’s unwavering gaze draws him back immediately. “That’s right, eyes on me. _Doctor_.” Somehow McCoy manages not to swallow. Jim’s calm, real calm, the before the storm sort. “Now get your fine ass over here and fix my face.”

“I’m not your nurse, Kirk,” he huffs, moving to pull a pack off the shelf.

“You’re whatever I fucking say you are.” It’s said without heat, a simple statement of fact.

McCoy opens the kit, rests it on the desk and takes out the antiseptic wipes. He stands between Jim’s open thighs and lifts a hand to Jim’s face, the wipe held loosely between fingers threatening to tremble. He can feel the heat radiating off Jim and focuses on the wound on Jim’s face, though he’s already fighting against a wave of arousal that’s sure to get him busted.

Jim doesn’t wince when McCoy cleans him up; he seems to switch off, turn inward as the details and outcomes of what’s occurred churn through that deadly, brilliant mind of his.

There’s silence as McCoy tends to him, as he considers how this might be part of why he’s aroused by this strange intimacy they share - how Jim _can_ faze out when McCoy’s with him like this. He’s safe; he knows McCoy’s not going to hurt him, ever. It’s like Androcles and the lion, McCoy thinks as he moves gentle hands across Jim’s face, his touch reverent because, though you’d have to torture him to admit it, touching this beautiful, lethal man in any way feels like an honor.

It’s a kind of power he has, McCoy realizes. He lets out a little involuntary gasp at the revelation and freezes when Jim’s eyes flick to his. Jim’s hands have been resting on the desk, McCoy sees him tighten his grip on the hilt of the dagger, sensing some shift in McCoy’s mind.

Ever aware of the door open behind them, McCoy whispers, moves his mouth to Jim’s ear. “You don’t need the fucking knife, Kirk.”

Jim’s lips part, his tongue peeks out between perfect teeth and the hand holding the dagger moves to McCoy’s shoulder.

“I’ll be the judge of that, Bones,” he says. He runs the tip of the knife along the fabric of McCoy’s shirt, across his shoulder, to where the skin is exposed at his neck. He hopes it’s for show, in case anyone can see through the open door. McCoy shudders inwardly, his stomach in knots of arousal, heat coiling, twisting inside him so his face burns. He knows Jim will have noticed, but he pushes the thought away, reaches round the trim waist for his tricorder, and runs it over the wound on Jim’s face. No infection. _Good._ When he steps back, Jim grabs his wrist.

“We’re not done.” He taps the front of his shirt.

McCoy glowers and pulls his hand free, runs the tricorder over Jim’s chest and glances at the readings, feeling Jim’s eyes boring into his face.

“Take your shirt off,” McCoy says gruffly.

“Say please.” Assassin’s eyes under a boy’s thick lashes..

And McCoy does, loading the word with as much sarcasm as he can as he mentally prepares himself for the sight of the contusion he knows spans the skin over Jim’s heart.

Jim tosses his dagger to the floor and when McCoy tries to step back and give him room to undress, he uses the heel of his boot to indicate McCoy stay right there, nudging the back of McCoy’s calf. McCoy watches Jim’s hands, skin white and almost perfect other than the blood under his nails, the bruised and fraying knuckles. His cock twitches again.

“I’ll need to clean those up…” He hopes he sounds matter-of-fact, that Jim won’t have noticed the bitten off words as McCoy tries to cover up his arousal. The sight of the flawed perfection makes his head swim a little. The fucking _trust_ acts like god damned fuel to the flame licking through his balls. It’s cool – McCoy will clean him up, give Jim the compulsory post-killing blow-job and he’ll get the fuck out of here.

He watches, frowning, dry mouthed as Jim brings his hands to the hem of his shirts and pulls them over his head, tossing them over McCoy’s shoulder.

“No fracture… you and your nine lives,” McCoy says quietly, his eyes darting over the purpling bruise the size of his hand. He picks up the small regen machine but Jim clicks his tongue to stop him, like McCoy’s a fucking dog or something. He glowers as best he can, wishing he didn’t have a craving to run his tongue across the damaged skin, to heal it with licks and kisses.

“Check with your hand,” Jim says, his voice low, winding into McCoy’s skull, taking him over like it always does.

McCoy obeys and strokes the bruise gently, the skin’s hot under his touch. Fuck, for all that Jim’s on the way to becoming a legend already, it reminds McCoy how fragile he is; a little more force behind the blow, a rib could have punctured his heart.

But it didn’t; he’s fine, he’s so alive.

McCoy can feel his breath become more shallow as he allows his mind to contemplate this. He’s aware how Jim watches his fingers as they examine the area, inching over marked skin. He shifts uncomfortably under the heat of that gaze.

“Prognosis, doctor?”

Before McCoy can answer, he huffs out a grunt of protest when Jim unexpectedly wraps solid thighs around his waist, using them to pull him close. McCoy’s hand is caught between them, trapped over Jim’s heart. They’re so close, Jim must be able to tell he’s hard, if he hasn’t already worked it out. Jim takes great pleasure in reminding McCoy what an open-book he is, his emotions running unchecked over his face, in his body language, plain as day . _That ‘tude of yours, Bones, it’ll get you killed some day – and don’t ever try poker, promise me?_

“You’ll live,” he croaks.

Jim’s gazing at his mouth, lifting his hand to eye-level so McCoy can get a good look at his knuckles. “What about this? Not gonna die from this either?” Tone playful and teasing - yeah, he’s worked it out. He’s managed in ten days to unravel something it’s taken McCoy months to get a handle on. 

McCoy winds his fingers into Jim’s pulls his hand close to his face, so he can breathe on it. “Well, if you haven’t suffocated under the enormous weight of your ego, doubt a few scrapes are gonna kill you…” He licks his lips and Jim takes the cue, pushes the wounded knuckles closer to McCoy’s mouth.

“Sure about that?”

McCoy closes his eyes, Jim’s voice dancing through his mind, winding into his belly, drawing him in. He presses his lips softly to broken skin, inhales the faint scent of iron, of life, their wrists grazing against each other.

“Yeah,” he finally whispers.

Jim’s legs tighten around him, a possessive embrace, holding him upright and imprisoning him all at once. McCoy realizes he wouldn’t have it any other way. This tender knot of flesh and muscle and strength.

The bruised knuckles trail up the side of McCoy’s head, across his cheeks and temples and then Jim’s fingers dig into the nape of the neck, sea-blue eyes unblinking, pinning McCoy in place like a cobra poised to bite.

“You worry about me,” he says so quietly McCoy wonders if he’s imagining things.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he huffs, his hands now braced on Jim’s hips.

“Computer, shut the fucking door,” Jim says imitating McCoy’s command earlier, adding, “and engage locks.”

The second it’s sealed shut there’s a tug on McCoy’s neck and their mouths fuse together. He’s not sure who moved first, and fuck if he cares as their tongues battle, hot and hard, involuntary little moans escaping the both of them.

This never gets old, this tender assault on each other, the heat of their mouths almost unbearable, matched only by the fire in his veins as he leans in. He can’t help moaning when Jim’s legs pull him forward, when Jim nips and tugs at his lips with wicked teeth.

This is a forbidden thing they do, kissing, a perversion the discovery of which would jeopardize Jim’s hold on his ship, his position in the Empire. It would have McCoy thrown into a booth and left there until his brain leaked out of his ears. No one would spare a thought for McCoy – any suffering meted out to him would be purely to punish Jim, to break someone he cares for. His skin prickles with fear even as he shoves Jim onto the desk and his legs fall away from him. He indulges in one more lick across Jim’s lower lip, the salty tang of blood making him hiss in arousal.

He takes a moment to contemplate Jim’s bruised chest again and runs a finger reverently around the shape, aware of how Jim’s eyes track the movements. Eyes locked, he opens his fly and guides Jim’s hand to his cock, gasping when Jim presses expertly through the fabric, ignoring how he lets out an amused breath through his nose when he sees how hard McCoy is.

“You think you’d mange to stay out of trouble once in a while,” McCoy grumbles bending to trail his lips on Jim’s chest. He licks at the bruise, nuzzling his nose through hair, across muscle, feeling the steady heart-beat under pale skin.

He drags his tongue up and across, pausing at a nipple, biting just the other side of rough how Jim likes it. Jim’s head thunks against the shelf and he mutters irritably under his breath – McCoy fucking loves the way Jim’s careful composure, his posturing, the face he presents to the dog-eat-dog world they live in, crumples when they’re like this.

As Jim’s fingers ease past McCoy’s underwear to touch skin, McCoy bucks into his hand, braces over Jim and cranes to lick at his damaged cheek. His tongue laps like a man denied water, and he’s shaking with need. When Jim tries to guide McCoy to his mouth again, McCoy pins him in place, runs his tongue the length of the gash, a benediction and supplication all in one. Jim’s breath stutters against his temple, Jim’s grip tightens on his cock, fingers calloused and rough sending a hundred shocks through him. 

“Bones…” Jim whispers.

“Uh-huh?” McCoy manages, muffled into reddened skin, his tongue exploring each bump and line of the contusion, evidence Jim’s okay, still here. He has to scrunch his eyes shut to get a grip, frightened the thought, the _need_ , and relief will somehow spill out of him and have Jim mock him for his weakness.

Jim lets go of McCoy’s cock and pushes him upright. He’s leaning on one elbow, his skin practically glowing in the artificial light, his chest covered in faint scars, like skaters’ lines, each one a near miss, a battle trophy, a mark showing what he’s achieved to get where he is. And there will be more, so many more, despite McCoy working the regen; these old marks won’t go away, having remained untreated at the academy before, Jim like any man with sense avoiding ruthless doctors. But never him. In McCoy he trusts.

Jim nods downwards, and McCoy understands the silent instruction and drops to his knees, unfastening and pulling at Jim’s uniform trousers till they bunch around the top of his boots. His cock’s big, straight and thick and pink, dark against the cream white of his stomach.

McCoy buries his face in the honey colored, rough hairs at his base, drawing the musky scent into himself, reaching down to work his own cock as he lays gentle, adoring kisses the length of it, glancing at Jim’s torn knuckles as he draws the tip into his mouth in a teasing slow-motion that he knows will irritate Jim no end. Jim bucks into his mouth and spans his fingers either side of McCoy’s face to hold him in place. It’s no mean feat but McCoy’s trained himself to take as much of Jim into his mouth as he can, fighting the gag reflex by breathing through, relaxing, secretly loving how full and smothered and stretched he feels, until motes of light dance behind his eyelids.

“Yeah, Bones, yeah…like that…” Jim moans above him, shifting to get a better angle and humping hard into McCoy’s unresisting mouth. McCoy opens his eyes and looks up at his captain, his lover, who’ll be the death of him in more ways than one, he’s damned sure of it. The sight of him, wanton, lips swollen and battered, slick with saliva, regarding him with no attempt to shield his desire through dark lashes, threatens to make his heart stop.

McCoy’s not sure how he feels about this, about the power the bastard’s got over him in all ways, and he loosens the suction, allows most of Jim’s cock to slide out and crouches away from the desk giving himself room to trail his fingers up the inside of Jim’s legs, stopping when he’s got his hands parallel with his head, his thumbs pressed into where hip meets thigh. He leans away and crouches to remove Jim’s boots. He does it slowly, removing his socks and licking up Jim’s ankles and calves, to his knees where he plants a kiss on each one before standing.

“You gonna take it easy all fuckin’ day or you gonna put that big dick of yours to good use?”

Jim stares at him, a close-lipped grin that promises everything and nothing. “Get on the floor,” his words cold but eyes hot with lust, pupils blown wide, a corona of blue shining like arctic water.

McCoy fights the reflex urge to tell him to go fuck himself, but his acquiescence is in his eyes, he can’t damned well help it and, he knows, it’s one of the things Jim loves about him. Yeah, _loves_ ; he can think it at least, though it would take an agonizer to his balls to get him to utter the word.

“I’ll have carpet burns,” McCoy grouses, kicking off his boots and stepping out of his pants. When he moves to lift his shirt over his head Jim interrupts him.

“Leave it on.”

He raises an eyebrow… _okay_ …

McCoy stretches out on the floor, suddenly feeling vaguely ridiculous with his science blues bunched up under his arms. Jim looms over him like some fucking warrior god, a fine sheen of sweat making him gleam like he’s carved out of marble or something. The contrast in their relative beauty makes McCoy feel hairy and dark and awkward in his presence.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” he asks irritably, flushing under Jim’s hot gaze.

Jim chuckles and moves to straddle McCoy’s chest, strokes his cock over McCoy’s face. It’s all he can do to resist opening his mouth to receive it, to crane after it like the greedy little, _pathetic_ acolyte he appears to have become.

“I’m looking at _you_ , you kinky son of a bitch,” Jim says warmly, guiding his cock over McCoy’s cheeks, a trail of pre-cum spider-webbing across his face. “And I had you down as weird and _sensitive_ or something.” The word ‘sensitive’ uttered in derision, amusement in his voice. “Turns out you’re as kinky as every other fuck.” McCoy clamps his lips shut in tight in case he says something that’ll get him a punch in the face. “Well?”

“How am I supposed to think with your massive dick beating me black and blue, Kirk?” McCoy snarls, his hands moving from his sides to stroke Jim’s ass and sides. “I don’t _like_ you hurt. Fact is, I don’t give a shit what happens to your sorry ass. Only thing I care about is Jo, you know that.”

Jim gives him a ‘yeah, right’ look and says coolly, “Open up, Bones.” And he does, sighing in relief when his mouth’s full again, when he feels the pulse in Jim’s cock, when he’s stifled before he says something dumber still.

Jim angles himself so he can guide McCoy’s cock between his ass cheeks, slicking his path with spit, the up and down slide, the pressure against the back of his throat as Jim fucks into his mouth too fucking much, the goddamned tease of his cock so close to Jim’s hole, forbidden territory except for high days and holidays, threatening to make him come all over Jim’s ass.

He tries to say as much though he’s gagged and he sounds ridiculous, muffled grunts and moans filling the small space of his office and a litany of, “Yeah, Bones, like that… _fuck_ …”

He opens his eyes and looks up at Jim, his eyes scrunched closed, teeth clenched, so fucking beautiful and debauched above him and he feels the too late surge in his balls. He balances in that moment on the side of a precipice before, _fuck_ , he drops in a white out haze of perfect, blissful release. His cock snags against Jim’s ass awkwardly, thrusting haphazardly, till he’s sliding in his come. Jim cranes his arm to hold it in place as best he can while shallow fucking into McCoy’s mouth, to finally pull away abruptly when he senses McCoy’s done.

McCoy covers his eyes with his arm, wishing the after shocks away because now, the way he feels, if he speaks, he’s going to say something he regrets. He’s loose and blissed out, weak and pliable, a warm glow loosening every knot he’s held in his body for hours, since Jim beamed down to God Forsaken Shit-Hole Planet below.

Jim’s still hard, the stamina of the wicked being part and parcel of who he is. McCoy grumbles but can’t resist when Jim twists him onto his side so they’re spooning. He’s found lube from somewhere because, before McCoy can utter any word of protest, Jim’s lifted his knee to his chest and got two slick fingers working roughly inside him. Over sensitized already, McCoy can’t help himself, “Fuck it all, Kirk, my mouth not enough?”

“I want you to feel me, Bones,” Jim grunts as he breaches past the first ring of muscle, “I think that’s what _you_ want… _fuck_ …maybe need too…” Damn, he knows, Jim knows, course he fucking does.

“How you can… _ung_ …talk so damned much…when…”

“’sides, I need your pretty mouth for something else…Jesus, Bones, you’re so fucking…tight.”

One more snap of his hips and Jim’s fully seated, his balls bumping against McCoy’s ass, and hell, this stamina must be contagious or something because how the hell is he hard again already? McCoy’s about to protest at the depth, the angle, because it fucking hurts, dammit, when Jim’s lube-smeared fingers are on his jaw and guiding him back to an awkward, sloppy kiss. Jim likes to come with his mouth on McCoy’s; it’s just the way it is. Forget that he’s got a permanent crick in his neck, a limp from the size of that god damned dick assaulting his ass on a daily (and more) basis. His tongue chases Jim’s best it can, ridiculous needy noises caught in this throat; the thought, _Don’t fucking die, you annoying bastard_ loops round and round in his head. Jim’s cock grates mercilessly across his sweet spot, his thigh pressed against his chest as Jim manipulates him to gain better access to his mouth.

“You like my cock, Bones, you fucking need it…say it, you stubborn bastard… _say_ it…”

Over his dead body.

Jim’s manhandled him onto his back now, guided his legs so they’re across Jim’s shoulders, so McCoy’s doubled up, in danger of being suffocated by this vicious pounding and press into him. He can think of worse ways to go.

“Don’t fucking flatter yourself,” McCoy manages a hand snaking up Jim’s chest to the bruise again, the flare of colour darkening as the blood seeps into the surrounding tissues. Jim tracks his eyes and McCoy feels him wedge his hand in the tight space between them to circle his cock.

“What’s with you looking at my chest, Bones?” he grates out, pausing for breath, yanking at McCoy’s cock roughly. “Did you miss something?” A droplet of sweat falls from Jim’s face and Jim runs the back of his hand across his forehead, wipes it on McCoy’s shirt where it’s worked its way as high as it can.

“Fuck you,” McCoy snarls, bucking into his hand then shoving his ass hard to meet Jim’s thrusts when they start up again. Jim looks so beautiful it’s going to break his heart, see if it doesn’t. He closes his eyes, concentrates on the perfect fullness, the stretch and burn, biting at his lip to keep back some of the involuntary sounds tumbling out, giving him away even as he denies everything he’s feeling with every hitched breath.

“Like you all disheveled like this,” Jim says, running his middle finger along the line of skin where the shirt’s twisted, slipping it under. “Like how you get when I fuck you. Like how everything tells me you need this, and yeah…I like the way you think I don’t know.”

“Stop talking already and fuck me, you arrogant…” He rests his hand on Jim’s chest, and drags him down so their lips clamp together, fusing in a blend of hot flesh and saliva, Jim’s tongue fucking into him almost as hard as he’s thrusting against his prostate. It’s slower this time, the build up, but Jim never comes before McCoy, not when he’s fucking him, not when he’s toying with him like this.

The last moments are like a violin string about to break, McCoy can feel the building tension, up his spine, tighter and tighter and then, the snap, the curl of heat from his balls to his throat, having him buck and twist under Jim’s relentless fucking, till…there… _fuck_ …he can’t hold off any longer and McCoy pinwheels into a long and gut-twisting orgasm.

He can hear Jim talking through it, his eyes on McCoy’s face the whole time, jacking him off in time with his strokes, can hear fragments of smug commentary like, “I know, Bones…it’s cool…let go… _I’m here_ …yeah, give it up, fuck _yeah_ …”

Whatever the hell it is Jim knows, it’s lost in the blast furnace of McCoy’s orgasm, cleansing the landscape of his mind, and he’ll deny it all later. His legs drop to the floor but, merciful saints, Jim’s not done yet. Still engaged, he hauls McCoy onto his lap, shuffles them both against the desk for support and kisses him hungrily, thrusting up in short little stabs with no rhythm, impatient to come himself. McCoy winds his arms around the back of his neck, holds him close, sucking on his tongue breathless and fucked out until Jim freezes, moans into McCoy’s mouth till he goes over the edge himself, silent as the black itself, the only movement his tongue pulsing in McCoy’s mouth and his chest rising and falling with McCoy’s.

They remain like that for a long moment, breathing into each others mouths, hearts slowing to something like normal, sweaty and silent.

The comm buzzes.

“Captain.” It’s Spock.

Jim pushes McCoy away unceremoniously and gets to his feet, grabs his pants. He hits the comm button. “Kirk here.”

“Our prisoners are waiting to be debriefed, Captain.”

Jim glances at McCoy. His neck and chest are flushed; he’s covered in sweat and McCoy’s come and he looks like…fuck, his brain can’t come up with suitable similes, not now that it’s been pounded pretty much out of his face by the horny SOB. Jim’s face is bright with excitement as he wrestles into his pants. “On my way, Mr Spock. Oh, buzz Rand, send her to the kitchen to fix me up a snack - I’m in the mood for something bloody.”

“I will pass on your instructions. Spock out.”

McCoy stands on wobbly legs, and pulls on his pants while Jim slips into his boots. Their eyes meet and Jim frowns; he knows what McCoy’s thinking, how he’s debating how best to persuade Jim to go easy on their captives. The fact that it’s pointless remains unsaid.

McCoy bites down on the lecture and settles for lowering his eyes and for fixing the poor bastards up later, if there’s anything left to fix up, that is.

Jim tosses his shirts over his shoulder and pulls McCoy to him by the door.

“You know what pisses you off, Bones?”

“I’m sure you’re gonna tell me.”

Jim taps McCoy on the nose playfully. “You hate that you’re more like me than you want to believe.”

“Is that right? How’d you figure that one?”

Jim licks his lips, smile wide and boyish as he ducks his head and strokes McCoy’s jaw with a finger that smells of lube and come. “Remember that first night? At the academy – how when they brought you to me you were all beat up?”

“Yeah, that was real romantic, one for the grand kids for sure.”

Jim chuckles, his eyes almost misting over as he thinks about it, “Thing I never told you was how pretty you looked all busted up and bloodstained.”

_Shit._

McCoy looks down at his feet, then back up to those cruel, all seeing eyes. Jim slaps him on the shoulder. “That’s why I let you stay. You looked so damned hot.”

“ _Let_ me stay? That’s why I was all trussed up like a turkey? It’s all so clear to me. Thanks.”

Truth is, Jim hadn’t kept him there against his will, they both know that. But now’s not the time. Jim takes McCoy’s hand and brings it to the bruise on his cheek, his eyes bright and knowing. “And no one looks prettier than Jim Kirk with a few bites and bruises, eh?” Jim holds his gaze, takes in the way McCoy’s ears are burning, then presses a kiss against his ear lobe.

“Try to stop worrying about me, Bones,” he whispers, his breath so fucking hot against his skin. “I’m fucking immortal.”

Before McCoy can make any comment, Jim hits the door release and strides out into sickbay, bare-chested, ignoring the heads turning to look at him as he passes, throwing one last benevolent look at McCoy over his shoulder.

McCoy shakes his head. Jesus, Jim really thinks he is immortal, like Mars or something.

**THE END**


End file.
